Her jump easily cleared the next balustrade. She landed on both feet and one hand, holding her gun high so it didn't knock against the balcony's slate flagstones. Shaking the sting out of her hand, she looked down the line of balconies she had yet to cross. ...Maybe I should have gone back to that last room before I started jumping. Even as she finished the thought she shook her head to herself. Whatever was in there was to be avoided at all costs. Just a gut feeling, perhaps, but instincts were all she had in this maddening situation.

The next few jumps she performed the same way, and they went just as well. She was glad of her tough pack and metal canteens; anything less might have broken. Now she was alongside the last gallery she'd gotten to before fleeing-which meant the next one belonged to the room which exuded such potent foreboding. Even outside it looked oddly dark, as if the sunlight passing near it was brown instead of yellow-white. Nikha breathed deeply as she got ready. She would work fast as she could: throw the pack, jump herself, snatch it up as she ran to the far railing and repeat the process. At no point would she stop. At no point would she look into the room. Simple.

It started off well. The pack flew true, her jump was clean. She landed with now-practiced aplomb, ignoring the wrongness of this space as best she could, already reaching for the straps as she stood-and one foot slid out from under her. She banged her knee painfully on the slate, shoved herself up as best she could with one hand on her gun and the other clenched round the pack. The whole time a mantra ran through her head: Don't look, don't look, don't look-

So of course she looked, eyes twitching desperately over the scene. Inside the room, the dark gradient intensified. The walls and floor were furred with snaggled teeth and malformed, osseous growths reminiscent of coral or cacti. In a clear spot in the center of the floor, a magic circle, or mandala, or something of that nature, had been drawn in white chalk. And above it… above it was something Nikha could not comprehend, let alone describe, something that regardless triggered a primal fear-response from deep in her brainstem. There was something there, but nothing there, but something was. It was as though the world was a cloth draped over a corpse's face, and the corpse had opened its mouth. The cloth was still there, but behind it...

Nikha ripped her eyes away before it could notice her, if indeed it was capable of such a thing. As soon as she gained her feet she hurled the pack hard as she could and charged for the railing. She leapt onto it at a run, pivoting up with her free hand then shoving off with both feet. She barely cleared the far railing and hit the floor headfirst, taking the aching impact to her forearm to avoid landing right on her face. The strange darkness didn't extend here, she realized with a sob of relief. Pulling herself into a sitting position, she hugged her knees and shivered silently for a minute or two despite the sunlight. Finally she shook her head hard and eased upright. I am not going to think about that, she resolved. I am not going to think about that at all. She moved forward, as much to distract herself as to advance.

Only a few leaps left before she could head back inside and seek the basement. That ought to be enough separation from the thing she wasn't going to think about. On the next jump she cleared the gap fine but landed badly, her palm slapping down to the flagstones. There was a sudden sting, and she jerked her hand away and scrambled up. One of the supremely irritating creeper-vines had made its way up onto the balcony, and a thorn had caught Nikha's left hand. There was a nice little cut across the web between her thumb and forefinger; the thing had gone through like a well-sharpened knife. At least that meant it hadn't hurt too much. Scowling, growling, and muttering words that in better times would have seen her sent to bed without dinner, she pulled the small case of medical supplies out of her pack and bandaged her hand as tight as she could without making it useless. How utterly annoying! she fumed.

She made the next jump too, though it was complicated by a thorn-vine that ran across the far railing. She had to shove off extra-hard to make sure she cleared it. Her pack had landed across another one, though the tough leather had only been scratched. As Nikha picked it up, she heard a weird rustling noise from the next jumping-off point. Immediately she kicked the pack off to the side and raised her gun. Over the railing came...a tree. Nikha was so nonplussed that for a moment she didn't even glare at it. It was rather stubby, just a foot or two taller than a man with a trunk about a foot and a half across. It had grayish bark and was topped with a broccoli-like tuft of purple-red leaves, their shape like serrated spades. Unlike most trees, however, it moved on a vaguely conical mass of many-branched roots. The whole thing swayed and flopped around awkwardly as it hopped the railing, shaking off several leaves. It would have been funny if it wasn't probably trying to kill her-and it still kind of was anyway. Nikha let out a mad little giggle as she sighted in.

She wasn't exactly sure of a walking tree's vital points, so she just aimed for the middle of its trunk and pressed the trigger. Her gun boomed, spitting smoky flame as it sent a heavy slug smashing into the tree. It stopped, twitching its branches with a squeamishly insectile motion- then kept coming, fully over the railing now.

Nikha was already reloading. She snapped the breech closed, thumbed the hammer back and put another hole in the tree an inch or so away from the first one. Again it briefly staggered to a halt then resumed its advance. Nikha backed up farther, glancing down to make sure she wouldn't trip on any creepers. She sent a third shot into the same area as the first two. It had similar results, though there was now a cloudy sap leaking from the area her shots had splintered.

Perhaps if she shot it enough it would bleed out like any other creature. Before she'd have the chance to see, though, she'd have to get around it. Its slow march forward had her pressed back against the railing. Nikha had already noticed that it moved directly towards her, no matter what. It could tell where she was even without eyes or ears or nose- not that she'd know what the walking tree version of those organs looked like. She moved towards the outer railing, cornering herself. The tree angled to follow, just as she'd hoped. Its leaves rustled impatiently while its carpet of roots moved it forward in a weird, staccato rhythm. It was nearly close enough to touch her now. The tree's top half bent down, those saw-edged leaves fluttering eagerly toward her-and she leapt to the side, into the extra space moving outward had afforded her. She felt sticky leaves just barely tug at her hair, and then she was away, deciding her next move as she ran.

Trying to head inside was right out. She had no time to mess with the door and make sure it opened, and even if it did she'd just be giving the tree a path to follow her. Standing and fighting didn't appeal either, not when she knew so little. The best thing to do, then was to just jump away. Throw her pack and then- Nikha spat out the vilest curse she knew. My pack! She'd entirely forgotten it wasn't on her back, and now it was with the tree. She turned around to see how hard it would be to retrieve it-

And jerked back as a whip-like root lashed out from the tree's base. She got far enough away to keep it off her face, but it wrapped partway around her left forearm before she managed to jerk away. The brief instant the tendril touched her was like having a burning rope laid against her skin; it was covered in sharp hairs that left behind deep scrapes when she pulled free. Nikha hissed in pain and fired at the tendril's base, but the pain was too much and she pulled the shot. When it darted for her again, though, she was ready. When she swung her bayonet into it, the root jerked back as if scalded. The cut she'd left in it was pitifully small, though. Grimacing with pain and anger and more than a little fear, she pulled a fresh cartridge from her belt. By the feel there weren't many left. Most of her ammunition was in her pack, but the way things were going she might have to abandon it.

The tree was still coming, its lashing tentacle lining up for another strike. Nikha decided she couldn't afford to lose the pack. This thing has to die. She'd just have to try to whittle it down. After taking a few more rounds from her belt and holding them between her fingers, Nikha aimed at the same spot she'd been shooting before and fired one, two, three, four times as fast as she could, fat brass shells jingling onto the slate. Her arms burned, her shoulder ached, her ears rang and the thick, white gunsmoke stung her eyes. She squinted through the cloud and growled in frustration. Her eyes watered, not entirely because of the smoke. The tree remained standing.

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It was in worse shape now, of course. There was now a great splintery divot in the middle of its trunk, a few inches across and several deep. It ran freely with cloudy-gray sap. Its movement was slower, the whip-root a bit more sluggish. Still, though, it advanced. She didn't think she could dodge around it, this time. Not with the tendril in play. And who knew? It might grow another one. Its leaves took on a palsied flutter as it lurched closer.

Running away and pecking at it was getting her nowhere. Eventually she would make a mistake and the tree would have her. It was time to make a move on her own terms. She swallowed as she decided on what to do.

Nikha made sure her bayonet was still latched, then lowered her gun to her side and charged forward, boots slapping the slate. She let out a wordless shout as she ran, the tip of her bayonet aimed for the crater in the thing's trunk. When she was within a few feet, the whip-root suddenly lashed out, catching her about the waist and yanking her towards the tree. She'd meant to charge it and perhaps tip it over, but now she was committed to a clinch. When she hit it was with more than her own strength; a jarring shock shot up her arms as her bayonet buried itself past the hilt. Immediately she cocked the rifle and yanked the trigger. This time she was rewarded by a spray of pungent sap and splinters from the other side of the trunk, followed by a creaky jerk as the tree halted and fell to a drunken angle. "Yes!" she crowed. Then she realized the tendril was still around her waist, its tiny spikes starting to prick through her skirt. Her rifle was still wedged fast in the wood so she had to let go of it to wriggle free.

Nikha staggered back, barely keeping her balance. Her breath came in great gasps and her arm felt like she'd ground stinging nettles into it-but she'd won. "That's-that's right," she huffed at her erstwhile foe. "That's how trees are supposed to-"

The thing lurched upright, making a screech like two wine glasses scraping together. "Just die, would you?" yelled Nikha, enraged. Hot anger curdled to cold fear when she remembered her gun was still stuck in the tree's trunk, wagging back and forth like a fishing rod as the implacable thing inched toward her. Its tendril twitched and flopped limply on the tile. Immediately she clenched down on her emotions, doing her best to stay calm. Her hand found the hilt of Papa's war-knife and she pulled it from its sheath, taking comfort from its worn wire grip. A soldier didn't only fight when she had the advantage. Anyone could do that. She couldn't give up, even when the odds were bad.

'Bad' seemed to be an understatement, though. The war-knife's blade was light and thin, meant to punch through an enemy cuirassier's mail or visor. It was not the best tool for chopping wood. The tree had slowed, through, and its weapon was at least temporarily out of commission. Maybe if she was fast enough, she could strike as she dashed by, widen the hole she'd blown at it. Nikha raised her blade and crouched, ready to lunge-

"Would you like some help?"

-and jumped about three feet in the air with an undignified "Eep!" as someone spoke from just behind her. Now what? She half-turned and backed up, trying to keep an eye on the tree and the newcomer at once.

He was only a few inches taller than her, though his shoulders were broad, and made broader by his full plate cuirass. A heavy saber and a revolver hung from his belt harness and another pistol dangled lazily from his gloved hand. He wore no helmet, and his goateed face was handsome, one eyebrow raised. "I'm not here to hurt you, you know. Shall I take care of it or not?" His Tsev was accented, and a hint of a mocking smile played about his lips as he spoke.

Nikha's head was whirling, but there would be time for questions when the stupid tree was dead. She looked to her unlikely savior and nodded. "Just don't hit my gun."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, as if humoring a child. He raised his revolver, cocked and fired. It was an old model, using loose powder and ball rather than cartridges, but the heavy bullet still made the tree stop in its shambolic tracks. The ball impacted just to the left of the wound she'd already made. Calm as if he was shooting bottles off a fence-rail, the cuirassier gave the smoke a moment to clear before firing again. This bullet was a bit to the right of the first, and the third further still. Nikha realized what he was doing as his last three shots stitched across the trunk. The tree emitted a weird, fluting tone, something between a creaky floorboard and a wind instrument. Then, there was a gristly splintering noise as the trunk and branches fell away from the roots. The base slowly settled to the ground and was still. The jagged leaves of the canopy, though, cycled rapidly through shades of indigo, cyan, magenta and finally a beautiful sunrise pink. A moment later, they went powdery and gray then fell from the branches all at once. "Is it..." hazarded Nikha.

"Oh, it's quite dead," said the cuirassier without looking up. He was already measuring out powder into the chambers of his gun. She'd thought so, but it paid to be sure. Moving up to the corpse-or was it log?-slowly, she gave it a few jabs with her knife before relaxing. It seemed well and truly done for, this time. She took hold of her rifle, which was still stuck in the bottom half of the tree. After a lot of wiggling and some prodigious yanks, it came free. She reloaded it and checked the action, then pulled off the bayonet. Everything seemed in order, and while the woodsman blade would need sharpened it was otherwise undamaged. The cuirassier hadn't shot it, either. Speaking of which...

Nikha put her rifle back over her shoulder where it belonged and went up to him. He was still reloading, levering fresh bullets into the cylinder. She wondered why he bothered; cartridge-loaders were much better. The armor was odd, too. Even in Papa's day the cuirassiers had worn their namesake plate but rarely, and then only when it was spelled up by war summoners.

"You ought to get newer guns," she told him.

He finished reloading and holstered his revolver before answering. "And what would a little girl know of arms?"

Nikha scowled and held her tongue for an instant. Protesting that she wasn't a child would only make her sound more like one. "Enough to know you'd be better off with cartridge pistols. They're faster to load, and-"

"Do you know that much?" the cuirassier interrupted. Nikha's expression grew angrier as he tilted his head at the remains of the tree. "You are supposed to shoot things with a rifle, not stab them."

Nikha glared at him. His expression was disingenuous but there was a hint of laughter in his green eyes. "I shot it too!" she protested, fists clenched at her sides. "Of course I know what a gun's for, you-"

"Me? Me what? So rude you are in the Tsev Empire, to thank me for saving your life like this."

Nikha opened her mouth, then clacked it shut as she realized he was right: she hadn't said thanks at all. "Alright. Thank you very much for your help." She gave a shallow curtsy. Matron Fulgin would have known exactly the proper depth, but Nikha had never paid much attention in etiquette lessons.

"Oh, It was nothing. I was passing through anyway." He smirked, his strawberry-blond mustache glinting in the sun. "I am counting it as my kill, though."

Nikha immediately protested, though she hadn't realized anyone was keeping track until now. "It was already mostly dead when you showed up! I should get at least half."

Again he cocked an eyebrow. "Mostly dead? It would not be dead at all, had I not arrived. My kill." What was that accent? Asteroux, maybe? She hadn't met enough foreigners to know.

"You don't know that! I might have finished it off." The eyebrow went even higher. "Fine. It was just a stupid tree anyway. And what do you mean, passing through? Who are you?"

He bent into a deep bow, armor clinking. Somehow he managed to make the motion less respectful than just standing there. "Before you stands Sir Remy Reltane of the Knightly and Hermetic Fraternity of the Rosy Cross."